The debriefing room didn't feel like part of the same world.
It sat inside a newly raised command tent just east of the warehouse HQ, its white canvas stretched tight and unmarred, edges still sharp as if reality hadn't quite caught up to it yet. Inside, climate control units hummed with mechanical calm, scrubbing the air clean of radioactive dust, smoke, and the copper-sting of blood. The lighting was even, clinical, almost gentle.
Outside, Chernobyl still burned.
I sat on a folding chair opposite a collapsible metal table, spine rigid, hands resting where my armored gloves met my knees. My combat suit was still on—no one had told me to remove it, and I hadn't asked. The armor was scorched and cracked in places, emergency sealant spiderwebbed along the seams. Dried blood darkened the plating, flaking off in places when I shifted.
The smell followed me in anyway.
Propellant. Ozone. Iron.
Across from me sat Major Petrov.
Her uniform was flawless. Not a crease out of place. No dust on her boots. No scuffs, no stains, no sign she'd set foot anywhere near the killing fields we'd just crawled out of. Her dark hair was pulled back into a regulation knot so tight it looked painful. She didn't look cruel.
She looked precise.
A datapad rested in her hands. She didn't look at me at first.
"Eli J. Carver," she said. "Civilian conscription designation Seven-Four-Nine Alpha. Call-sign: Deadshot."
She finally lifted her eyes.
"Age: sixteen."
The word landed heavier than any artillery shell.
Sixteen.
It wasn't accusation or pity in her tone. Just a fact. Logged. Filed.
"You were inducted under Article Seven of the Final Accord," Petrov continued. "Familial Compliance Clause. Your father attempted to evade conscription."
My jaw tightened. "Yes," I said.
She nodded once, as if checking a box. "Wave Unit One. Drop Zone Delta-Three. Operational window: thirty-six hours."
Her fingers flicked, and a holographic projection bloomed into the air between us. The landing zone appeared, rendered in sterile blues and reds. Icons pulsed. Lines traced movements. Data scrolled faster than my eyes could comfortably track.
"Your performance during initial insertion and the subsequent defense of Delta-Three has been… noted."
Noted.
I stared at the projection, at the tiny red markers that represented people I could still see when I closed my eyes.
Torres. Nguyen. Bishop.
Thousands of dots, already grayed out.
"Your confirmed kill count is significantly above baseline," Petrov said. "Accuracy rate exceeding ninety-five percent. Engagement discipline well above conscript average. Ammunition expenditure conservative."
She swiped again. "Tactical decision-making: advanced. Pattern recognition: exceptional. Flanking execution: precise."
She paused. "Psychological profile… irregular."
I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Let me guess," I said. "Anomalous."
Her eyes flicked up. Just for a moment, something like curiosity passed through them. "Yes."
Silence stretched.
Finally, I said, "I hadn't planned on being good."
Petrov tilted her head slightly. "Explain."
I hesitated, then laughed softly—short, humorless. "In training," I said, "they called me Rookie. I messed everything up. Missed shots. Bad timing. Slow reloads. Always half a step behind."
Her datapad chimed quietly as she brought up another file.
"Yes," she said. "Your basic training evaluations reflect… mediocrity. Consistently."
I met her gaze. "That was on purpose."
That earned me her full attention.
Petrov's fingers stilled. "You intentionally underperformed."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because excelling gets you noticed," I said.
"And noticed people get pushed to the front." Which, in the end, had happened anyway. "I was sixteen," I added. "I thought if I looked useless enough, they'd park me somewhere safe. Or forget about me until I turned eighteen."
Petrov studied me like I was a problem that had just rewritten itself. "Our analysts," she said slowly, "reviewed your combat telemetry from Delta-Three."
She gestured, and a new set of overlays appeared—shot trajectories, heat maps, movement arcs. "Your performance in the field does not align with your training records."
"No," I agreed. "Because in training, I was hiding."
"Hiding what?"
I thought of nights hunched over a battered console. Of maps memorized. Of angles, timing, spawn logic, flanks. Of learning how people moved when they thought they were safe.
"I like strategy," I said. "Always have. War games. Tactical sims. Anything with terrain and planning. I'm good at seeing where people aren't looking."
Petrov was silent for a long moment. "During basic," she said, "you operated at approximately five to fifty percent of your measurable capability."
That made my stomach drop. "You knew," I said.
"We suspected," she corrected. "We did not have proof." She looked directly at me now. "You provided it at Delta-Three."
The projection shifted again—this time replaying my movements during the landing. The flank through the drainage ditch. The suppression of the machine gun. The follow-up elimination of the spotter.
Clean. Efficient. Unmistakable.
"Given your demonstrated aptitude," Petrov said, "and the catastrophic attrition suffered by Wave One, Coalition Command has authorized a battlefield promotion."
Here it came.
"Effective immediately, you are promoted to Private First Class." The words hit harder than I expected. Promotion meant responsibility. Responsibility meant expectation. Expectation meant survival wasn't just about me anymore.
"I didn't ask for this," I said quietly.
"No," Petrov replied. "But the Coalition requires assets that can adapt."
I clenched my jaw. "I'm still a kid."
"You are also a combat-effective soldier," she said.
"Those two facts are not mutually exclusive in this war." I hated how calmly she said it.
"As a PFC," Petrov continued, "you are reassigned to Reconnaissance Platoon Gamma. Forward observation. Long-range interdiction. Target designation."
Recon. Ahead of the line. Always ahead.
"You noticed how quickly the battlefield made sense to you," she said, not as a question.
I didn't answer. Because I had. The chaos had resolved into patterns. Noise into signals. Fear into focus. That realization scared me more than the gunfire ever had. "When do I report?" I asked.
"Immediately." She stood, deactivating the projection. "Dismissed, PFC Deadshot."
Just like that, the war reshaped me again.
Outside the tent, the radioactive dust storm howled. Floodlights cut through the haze, casting long shadows across the warehouse complex. Engineers shouted over generators. Medics moved stretchers with practiced efficiency. Wave Two soldiers marched past in clean armor, eyes wide as they took in the carnage we'd left behind.
They looked at me differently. Not like one of them. Not like a civilian. Something in between.
Sector Gamma lay closer to the forest. Recon vehicles clustered there—light transports, drone rigs, sensor arrays. The smell of fuel and damp earth filled the air.
Sergeant Miller stood beside a scarred transport, helmet off, face lined and hard. "So you're Deadshot," he said. "Command says you're special."
"I don't feel special," I replied. He snorted.
"None of us do." He motioned me inside. The hatch sealed. The engine growled to life. "You hid in training," Miller said as the vehicle lurched forward. "Why stop now?"
I looked out through the armored viewport at the blackened trees sliding past. "Because hiding didn't work," I said. "And because I don't plan to die today."
Miller studied me for a moment, then nodded once. "Good answer."
The transport rolled deeper into the exclusion zone, toward unknown ground and unseen enemies.
Rookie was gone.
Deadshot wasn't pretending anymore. And the battlefield was only just beginning to see what I could really do.